Chapter 10: Suburbia and Shame
“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”
While I was born in Guelph, Ontario, my parents, two older sisters and I moved to BC when I was 2 years old. Add a younger sister and this is where my earliest memories begin.
The neighbourhood I grew up in was called Birdland because all the streets were named after birds. I think the better question is who decided to name a community after birds? I digress.
Raven Place is where my life unfolded until 8th grade. We knew all off our neighbours and they knew us. We would walk or ride our bikes to the nearby parks daily…Hummingbird Park and Robin Park. Robin Park, by the way, had much better sledding hills in the winter time. My first kiss at 6 years old was with my neighbour Gordon. And we would walk to kindergarten everyday. Imagine 6 year olds today walking to school by themselves
We had a Labrador named Snoopy who died when someone in the neighbourhood accidentally hit him. My dad was especially broken up about it as he loved dogs (and still does.)
SUMMER TIME…
We had a 4 foot above-ground pool set-up in the back yard each summer — and we were the place where all the kids wanted to hang out. Even though there were lots of rules…wash your feet in the bucket, don’t get the grass in the pool, limit the number of kids in at any one time, no eating in the pool, there were also lots of lovely memories.
All the kids played together at different houses, different times of the year.
Four houses down two boys lived and we would hang out in their house sometimes. Board games and tag, dress up and kick the can.
And that’s where their father would force me onto his lap and sexually asault me. I can still feel his breath on my neck, and my body stiffening up as he touched me with his large, grubby hands.
And I told no one. In fact, I suppressed my assault so deep into my troubled young mind that I did not recall what had happened to me until I was married, in my late 20s and a memory came flooding back to me one night while I was in bed. I shot straight up and let out a cry. I woke my husband lying next to me and said, I think I was sexually abused by my neighbour when I was a child. And I wept and was frightened at this shocking revelation. And the memories started coming back.
Years later, I wondered why I didn’t tell anyone. I knew it was wrong, and it hurt and it was shameful. And then I seemed shameful. Utterly and completely ashamed.
I grew up in a house where shame was often used a weapon of control. It was wielded mostly by my mother. A tool she found useful as she her herself was consumed by her own shame for decades. Only much later as an adult in my 40s would I understand the depth and impact that shame had on her. That is not to excuse her behaviour but to understand her trauma informed parenting.
So shame was ever present in my world at a young age. I knew what it was and how it felt. And I dare not bring about more shame into an already emotionally charged home. I certainly did not want to have more shame heaped upon my 6 year old confused self.
And so I stayed silent.
And I stopped going to the neighbours house. And I buried those memories so far in the recesses of my mind that I erased them entirely for decades.